


You are that space that’s in between every page

by makesometime



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Asexual Character, Banter, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Cages, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gags, Human/Vampire Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Poison, Pre-Relationship, Relationship Negotiation, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/pseuds/makesometime
Summary: He flirts, and it’s responded to, with increasing frequency.He’s even caught Zolf staring at him more than once with an interest that he would generously describe ascarnal.So... is it respect or fear that drives his hesitance?
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 46
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an excuse to explore what an asexual vampire dynamic would look like when applied to Oscar and Zolf and turned into something a little deeper.
> 
> I will be going into that in more detail in the hypothetical second chapter which exists only in my head at this moment. I trust the WIR lovelies to keep me on it.
> 
> (Title from a song by The Amazing Devil who write incredible songs)

Oscar’s been working alongside Zolf for several months now. He thinks it was Curie’s doing, but honestly there’s something to be said for having a handsome dwarf turn up at your door and enlist your help that makes the particulars of the impetus behind it far less important to remember.

They’ve been in close quarters enough, bantered enough and shared enough close calls that he likes to think they’ve built a rapport. And it is, without doubt, the longest working relationship he’s had that hasn’t ended in a proposition, either through needing a distraction from the boredom of late night working or through genuine, mutual interest.

He wishes he had the faintest idea why.

He wonders over it sometimes, when he’s got some time alone in his Tite Street home. He’d be remiss in not facing up to the fact that normally he doesn’t shy away from inviting people to share his bed. He likes Zolf, very much. Finds him attractive, fascinating, alluring in all of the ways that would normally drive a further interest. 

He flirts, and it’s responded to, with increasing frequency. 

He’s even caught Zolf staring at him more than once with an interest that he would generously describe as _carnal_.

So... is it respect or fear that drives his hesitance? 

He can’t claim to be _entirely_ respectful. He’s indulged himself in fantasies. Held his cock and imagined it to be Zolf’s pleasantly large hand instead. Come with fingers in his mouth that he knows would be so different were they not his own.

Zolf is an enigma that he desires to solve, not a challenge that he wants to conquer. 

“What’s distracting you, Wilde?”

Oscar blinks, fighting the urge to look away, to hide his attentions. “Mr Smith, do you really need to ask?”

The look Zolf gives him is in equal parts curious and frustrated. “Perhaps I was asking to make a point.”

Wilde snorts, letting his feet drop from their position on his desk, scooting his chair in close once more. Zolf’s right. There’s a lot of reading to do and only a handful of useful hours to do it before they’re going to be crossing the Channel, and his wandering mind is not going to get them closer to being ready.

There’s a nervous energy in the dwarf tonight that he’s not entirely sure can be down to their mission. They’re taking the train, not sailing, and even if they were Oscar’s seen the tattoos on his forearms, has heard him talk at least once of his time on trading ships. The crossing itself can’t be the reason for it. So…

“Wilde!”

He grins, looking up from opening another piece of correspondence from Curie with his favoured letter opener. “Zolf. At least give me a little while to get back into the swing of things before you chastise me.”

Zolf narrows his eyes, almost snarling in annoyance and _oh_ , okay, that’s a sound that chases its way right down to his toes. He holds the dwarf’s gaze as he slits the top of the envelope, watching as Zolf’s eyes widen and nostrils flare. Zolf takes a moment to purse his lips shut, looking across to the fire and clutch up another brief with white knuckles.

Peculiar.

It’s only when Oscar looks down at his hands that he realises he’s sliced right up the side of his thumb.

“Oh!” He splutters, inanely, because he really hadn’t realised the old blade was so sharp. 

“You alright?”

The throb of pain as blood starts to bead freely along the surface of his wound stops him from fully exploring why Zolf’s voice sounds so tremulous. He covers one hand with the other and hums a little tune, feeling a warmth beneath his palm as the skin knits back together.

“There. No harm done.”

“That’s a pretty little trick.”

Oscar can’t help the quirk of his lips. “Oh there’s plenty more where that came from Zolf.”

Normally he’d expect that sort of quip to be a knife edge - either a cause for Zolf to smile and look away or a chance for him to scoff and jibe right back. What he doesn’t expect is a curious softness to creep into Zolf’s gaze.

“Why d’you always do that?”

Oscar frowns, placing his hands on the desk and leaning in a little closer. “Do what?”

“Flirt. Make everything a... joke.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “No. That sounds wrong. Just. Why with me?”

A smile forms on his lips as Oscar tips his head to the side. “Have you seen yourself?”

Zolf doesn’t immediately dismiss his question, instead looking him over so intently that he feels as if those green eyes are staring right into his soul. He’s never noticed how bright they are before. It almost looks as if they’re ringed with gold, the sclera tinged with red…

“Do you know?”

Oscar swallows, feeling a sort of irresistible pull in his brain. His mouth opens almost without him even thinking about it. “Know what?”

Zolf’s eyes go wide in an entirely different way. He pushes to his feet, chewing on his lip and looking anywhere but at Oscar. He looks about ready to flee, the least comfortable Oscar has ever seen him in the least threatening of situations.

“What’s wrong? Zolf?”

“N-nothing.” He stutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You want a drink? Or something?”

Oscar can’t help the bemused smile that graces his face as he takes in this complete change of heart. 

“Will you tell me what’s wrong or shall I try to guess?” When Zolf remains silent, he allows his smile to grow. “Were you suddenly overcome with lust for me? Or perhaps the sight of my bleeding hand uncovered a previously unknown partiality?”

Zolf hesitates just long enough for Oscar to determine that he’s not completely off the mark.

Only given the intensity of the dwarf's reaction… he’s not entirely sure which of his suggestions is closest to the truth.

“Wilde.” Zolf says sharply. “Drop it.”

“Look, you’re clearly not happy. I don’t want to make this happen again.” He says, allowing a defeated sigh to escape as he sits back. “I’m sorry, Zolf. If there’s anything you’re willing to tell me…”

Zolf shakes his head, sitting back down and picking up his work. “It’s nothing important.”

“You’re important.” Oscar says, almost on reflex. “So it’s important.”

Zolf’s mouth opens after a moment… then his head turns quickly towards the door. A good few seconds later there’s a hesitant knock, and his housekeeper steps inside without invitation. 

“Sorry to bother you Mr Wilde, but the carriage is here early. Madam Curie sent a note with the driver.” 

He beckons her forward and skims the note. There's been reports of potential strike action and they need to get on the last train out of London rather than waiting for the morning. He sighs, relaying the news to Zolf as he fetches up all of the papers and stuffs them in a bag. 

By the time Oscar's ready, Zolf is already by the door with both of their previously packed travel bags under his arm and an expectant look on his face. 

“I don't suppose we can continue this conversation on the train?” He says, trying not to sound as plaintively hopeful as he feels. 

Zolf just smirks and turns on his heel, leaving Oscar alone in the office. 

“Well. I can't say I didn't expect as much.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo it me again. More vampires, this time with added Oscar-whump. Please note the updated tags, just in case. Nothing particularly explicit in here but Zolf does go on a bit of a vampire rampage (vampage?).
> 
> You might also notice I up-ed the chapter count, because I apparently had to hurt Oscar a bit before they can have a conversation about vampires, consent and asexuality. I will get there. I promise.

It all goes wrong so strikingly quickly that Zolf wonders if Wilde is some sort of bad luck charm. 

He leaves the man catching a few hours of sleep to go down to the lobby of their hotel and fetch a telegram from Sasha and by the time he's back Wilde is gone, blood on the carpet, the windows to the road open and curtains blowing in the breeze. 

Well, fuck.

It makes things both easier and harder all at once. 

It's La Gourmand, it has to be. The one they've been hunting for weeks, the one who's close to uncovering some sort of sideways route into immortality. 

Wilde was never meant to be bait, though. Zolf would never put him at risk like that. 

He stands and watches the sun rise with a frown. He could get out there, sticking to shadows and overhangs, but this is not his city and not his coterie. There’s no telling who could intercept him and decide that a swift introduction to a sunny stairwell could solve a lot of their problems.

So he waits. He waits and watches the skies and curses any cloud he sees that might open and wash away the scent of Wilde’s blood (they were foolish to hurt him, they should have known better). He rages quietly over the fact that WIlde might be conscious, hurting, and wondering over whether Zolf will come for him as the sun reaches its peak.

He feels his anxiety like a stone in his stomach and refuses to explore the reasons behind it. 

Zolf’ll get him back. It’s not a question of if, but a question of how many of La Gourmand’s men he can feed on along the way.

He sets out as soon as the sun dips below the buildings, sticking to the quieter streets as he follows his nose. The blood drops are few and far between but he’s lucky they didn’t bother with a carriage, dragging Wildethrough dark streets and into the sewers. 

Zolf moves like the night, following senses honed by centuries of practice. He’s barely hit the nearest limit of the arrondissement before he hears movement ahead - a guard, the first line of defence, young, bored and lazy. He hates these moments the most - there’s a big chance the kid has done nothing wrong yet in his time with the gang, but he can’t risk it. 

It takes barely a minute, all told, before he’s moving on, blood under his nails and pooling beneath his boots.

He’s almost embarrassed for La Gourmand. For someone who clearly considers themself of good standing in the criminal underworld, Zolf cuts through his men like a hot knife through butter. 

There’s a room of four of them, spooked by a shout that one of their comrades manages to loose, blades at the ready and waiting for him. Within three seconds they’re on the floor, throats ripped out before they even have time to scream.

He easily picks Wilde’s scent out of the mess of blood and gore that he leaves in his wake (not considering it, not stopping to even _think_ ) and chases down dark hallways filled with muck until he sees candlelight and movement and hears a lilting French accent caught mid-taunt.

“Weak.” The voice sniffs. “Still out cold even now. What does he need you for?”

Zolf listens, ears straining for any sort of response, but gets none. He moves in closer, picks out the familiar (but slow) thud of Wilde’s heartbeat and feels a wash of relief over him so cold and shocking that it refocuses him completely. 

He can tell he’s getting slower, moving at the heights of his abilities for too long without taking blood in, so he pushes into the room quietly and scouts to make sure there are no others in view. Silently, Zolf moves behind Wilde’s jailor and stomps on his leg to bring him down to his knees, forcing a hand hard into his hair and tugging his head to the side to expose his throat.

With the snarl of a vampire gone unfed too long, he lowers his mouth to the man’s jugular and bites down.

It is more satisfying than it has any right being, feeling the man start to fade from existence in his arms, going limp and heavy as his body fills with fresh blood and vitality. Zolf swallows in deep pulls, allowing his eyes to stray to where the man had been looking when he arrived. He spots a slumped form behind thick iron bars and feels a growl forming in his chest, arms tightening and squeezing a final weak splutter from his victim.

Once the man’s breathed his last, Zolf lets the body fall to the floor and strides to the cell, reaching out for the large iron lock and wrenching it free of the door. (The door itself almost comes off its hinges as he pulls it open to get inside but that hardly matters).

They’ve gagged Wilde, with one of those hideous barbed contraptions that will keep him quiet and punish him for any sounds he tries to emit. A quick once-over reveals no obvious injuries beyond the muzzle, but Wilde’s out cold in a way that he doesn’t like.

His sluggish heartbeat is explained by a blooming of darkness around a puncture wound in his throat. Poison, by the looks of things, which will have wormed its way into Wilde’s bloodstream over the previous few hours with a haste that Zolf can do little about now. He crouches down, gently easing the gag off and throwing it across the room, trying not to look too closely at the wounds it’s left behind.

He sighs, leaning down to fix his mouth gently over the poison mark and suck, grumbling at the burst of bitterness on his tongue. 

Drow poison. Of course.

If they dosed him when they took him, it should be wearing off soon enough. But. He can help it along.

He nips at the inside of his wrist to bring a small flow of blood to the surface and presses it to Wilde’s lips, watching the pass of blood into his mouth and hoping it’s enough.

“You’re good at this.”

Zolf freezes, setting Wilde down very gently and turning around. “And your men are fucking terrible at it.”

La Gourmand smiles, but the jibe lands, Zolf can hear it in his heartbeat. It makes it all the easier to stand confidently in the face of this man who thinks himself so important, so vital, and is anything but.

“Why are you here?”

Zolf snorts, taking a step closer. He feels flush with power after his meal, confident. And he can tell La Gourmand sees it. “You took one of my own. Bad move, that.”

“Is he really that important to you?” The man scoffs, moving across the room and picking up a series of implements in turn that he’s lucky appear to still be unused. “Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“He’s important to _you_.” Zolf says. “And I don’t much like you. Getting in your way is just a bonus.”

The knife flying at his head is easy to bat away and he rolls his eyes. Another quickly follows and he catches it up, flipping it in a way that would make Sasha proud and throwing it back so that it finds a home deep in La Gourmand’s chest.

“Can you blame me?” He asks, clutching a hand to just under the wound. He knows better than to pull it out, for what little good it’ll do him now.

“Suppose not.” Zolf shrugs. “Not for that at least.”

“I can give you names. Locations.” As a final gambit, it’s not the worst he’s heard. He knows the information La Gourmand could provide would be valuable.

But it’s not more valuable than Oscar.

The man goes down easy, Zolf phasing behind him and digging into his throat, ripping out the meat of it in one easy motion. Blood sprays everywhere but it has little impact on the overall state of the room. Zolf can’t even bring himself to drink from the man. A waste of a life.

He looks up from La Gourmand’s corpse, scanning the room and finding Oscar awake and staring back at him, eyes wide and afraid.

“Zolf?” He whispers.

He’s not sure how much the man saw, but it must be enough. And on top of it he must look a state, covered in blood, with a red-soaked beard and glowing gold eyes.

“Let’s get you out of here.” He says, crossing the room and entering the cage once more and hooking an arm around Oscar’s chest to haul him to his feet.

Oscar simply nods and doesn’t bother to protest. If nothing else, that tells Zolf how seriously out of sorts he is.

First, he’ll get them back to the hotel. Then it’s overdue time to finally be honest with Oscar Wilde.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In tonight's installment: the inherent eroticism of calling someone by their first name for the first time.

“So you’re a vampire. Is that right?”

He looks up with a start to see a figure standing in the doorway to the bedroom he’d left Oscar in. He must be more weary than he thought, to have been taken by surprise by someone so recently caged and poisoned.

Oscar somehow manages to look _small_ standing there, wrapped up in one of the many blankets Zolf had piled upon him while insisting he rest.

Zolf sets his book aside, gesturing for the seat across from him at the fire. “S’pose there’s no point in denying it now.”

“You’re certainly not what I would have expected.” Oscar smiles, settling down and tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “I suppose that serves me right for believing everything I read.”

It sends an unpleasantly cool shiver up the back of Zolf’s spine to hear Oscar talk about it so casually. He’s avoided this for a reason. It should be more serious than this. Shouldn’t it?

“Zolf. I was only joking.” Oscar cuts in. “But I feel like I’ve hit upon something.”

“I’m supposed to be the one worrying about _you_.” Zolf says quietly, leaning in to get a better look at the man.

The poison mark is gone from his throat, but it shouldn’t be. Perks of the impromptu infusion that Zolf didn’t ask permission to give. There are still marks on Oscar’s cheeks from the gag but they are fading too.

“I feel fine, physically.” Oscar says. “Mentally it might be a little less… clear?” He says quietly. “But I’ll be honest, I was mostly unconscious for my indignity and only woke up in time to see you covered in blood.”

“About that—.”

“Zolf. It’s okay.” Oscar says quietly. “I have questions, but I refuse to listen to you apologise for anything that led to my current safety. Am I clear?”

Zolf nods, folding his hands in his lap. “Crystal.”

“How old are you?” Oscar asks after barely a moment's thought. “And can I have a drink?”

Zolf snorts, getting to his feet and walking over to the sideboard to fetch up the bottle of wine he ordered up for the man. He uncorks it and pours a glass as he thinks on how to answer. 

“Four hundred years, give or take.” Zolf says, crossing back to the heat of the fire. “You start to lose count after two-fifty.”

“Funny.” Oscar smiles, reaching out for the glass that Zolf offers. He takes a deep pull of wine and hums, settling back in the chair. “Doesn’t it get… boring?”

Zolf shrugs. “Yeah? Life _is_ boring. But you surround yourself with the right people and do the right things and time passes pretty normally.” He smiles, catching the way Oscar watches him sit back down with a curious eye. “The one who turned me, Sasha, has been at this for two thousand years and she’s still going.”

Oscar blows out a disbelieving breath through pursed lips. “Well. That’s certainly a life.”

“She’s incredible.” Zolf admits, allowing a flush of affection to wash over him. “Something tells me you two would get along.”

“Can I meet her?”

Zolf gives a small smirk. “Is that one of your questions?”

“Well, no.” Oscar replies. “But then you did hunt down the leader of the Parisian underground criminal network and kill him on my behalf so you know, I thought we were building a rapport.”

Zolf shakes his head at the pleased look on the man’s face, something about his coy little amusement making a warmth pool in his belly. It’s the same feeling he’s got multiple times in working with Oscar, the same feeling he gets when he realises his eyes have been lingering a moment too long on the man’s lips. 

It’s so fucking complicated.

He’s more than used to physical contact with people, either willing or not. He’s killed, he’s maimed and he’s fed more than once on a willing victim who he _knows_ has got sexual gratification out of the exchange. He also knows, from the staccato pattern of Oscar’s heartbeat some nights that if he offered it now to the man there’d be a hearty acceptance and a very happy ending to the entire affair.

But he’s not used to feeling _this_ way. Like he wants Oscar to stick around. Like he wants to bury more than his teeth into the man. It’s hot and it’s different and it’s making him feel things he’s not really considered for years.

“What else did you want to know?”

Oscar stretches, pushing the blanket off his shoulders and taking another drink of wine. “I feel remarkably well for someone who was unconscious for a good few hours on a stone floor. What happened, exactly?”

“They gagged you and poisoned you with some sort of drow poison. I’ve not seen anything like it for a while and odds are they haven’t either, because they did a piss poor job of dosing it. It knocked you out completely for almost the entire day.”

He hesitates, opening his mouth and then shutting it again. Oscar notices, of course, because the man is a spy and a handler in his own right, vampire or no. “ _And_?”

“I gave you some of my blood.” Zolf admits, twisting a hand in the length of his beard. “I apologise. Normally it’s not something I do without asking, but you needed help.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, just a touch. “What does that mean? Am I going to become a vampire?”

“No.” Zolf scoffs, before realising that Oscar genuinely doesn’t know better. “No, Oscar. It takes more than that, I wouldn’t treat something like that so lightly.”

The flash of surprise over Oscar’s face gives him pause.

“What is it?”

“You…” His smile grows, small at first but eventually turning into a grin. “You called me Oscar. That’s the first time.”

“Mm.” Zolf scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh but Zolf, I would _very_ much like to.” Oscar says, crossing one leg over the other in a way that shouldn’t be quite so appealing. He’s seen the man sit like this before. His eyes have never once dipped lower than Oscar's chest. But now…

“One more question, for now.”

Zolf lifts his chin quickly, staring at Oscar’s too-pleased expression. “Yes?”

“You saved my life. I don’t think I can ever fully express to you how grateful I am, and I’ve never particularly been one not to take a chance when it’s presented to me, so. Can I kiss you?”

He can’t help the splutter that escapes him, even though he wasn’t necessarily not expecting it. “You what.”

“Zolf.” Oscar exhales, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Please do correct me if I’ve read the room very poorly here for several weeks but I thought there was a level of mutual interest here.”

“There is.” Zolf says, surprising himself. “There is. It’s just more complicated than all that.”

With a small nod, Oscar fixes him with the most sincere look he thinks he’s ever seen the man wear. “Would you tell me? I’d like to understand.”

Zolf pushes to his feet, walking across to stand in front of Oscar with an increasing feeling of confident _rightness_ flooding over him. Without speaking, he catches up Oscar’s hands in his own, holding them gently. 

“I don’t really _do_ this. Can’t say never, but rather, not for a long fucking time.” He smiles, watching Oscar nod. “I know you’re not the same way. I don’t know if I can always give you what you want.”

“You seem so very sure that you know what I want, Zolf.” Oscar says, thumbs smoothing over the sides of his hands. “Don’t talk yourself out of something before it’s even begun.”

“I like you.” He says. “Sounds fucking childish, but I do. I don’t like many people. Fewer even that I see and want to touch. You’re a stand-out, Wilde. Something special.”

Oscar gives a soft little moan of pleasure. “Oh you _do_ know the right things to say.”

“So essentially, what I’m saying is.” Zolf tips his head to one side, considering. “Yes, I would like it if you kissed me. If you’re lucky, it might even happen again.”

“No pressure at all then.” Oscar smiles, running his tongue along his lower lip and pulling gently on Zolf’s hands.

He melts into the man without any further encouragement, swallowing Oscar’s happy little groan. His lips are warm and plush and Zolf smiles when Oscar pulls his hands away to loop his arms around Zolf’s body instead. He brings his hands up to tangle in Oscar’s hair, opening his mouth to the eager press of the man’s tongue and feeling a growl catch in his throat at the heat and wet and warmth…

Oscar’s tongue traces over his canines, retracted and barely sharp like this and Zolf chuckles, moving in between the man’s spread legs and shivering through the way the simple act makes his gums tingle pleasantly. 

It’s been far too long since he indulged in an extended kiss like this, stealing little biting kisses when Oscar pauses for breath, grumbling something unimpressed when Zolf doesn’t need to do the same. It is easy to lose himself in it, to feel Oscar’s hand settle low on his backside and not want to shrug it off. To be affirmed that this is something he desires, that this is something entirely different. 

That it’s _Oscar_ that he wants.

Four hundred years, and he found a partner in a _human_.

Sasha’s going to be insufferable.

Oscar pulls back eventually, panting and flushed and it sends a great swoop through Zolf’s stomach to see him so utterly marked by their little interlude. His lips are red and glistening and Zolf can’t resist the urge to bring up a hand and smooth a thumb over Oscar’s mouth.

“You…” The man breathes, pressing a kiss to the pad of Zolf’s thumb. “Are extremely good at that for someone who professes little interest in the act.”

“Flatterer.” He smiles, pretending not to feel quite as pleased by the praise as he is. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“ _Oh_.” Oscar sighs, clutching a hand to his heart. “You are going to be terrible for my ego, aren’t you?”

Zolf grins. “Yes.”

Oscar considers him very quietly for a moment, so quietly that he wishes he had some sort of telepathy. Eventually, stroking the backs of his fingers down over Zolf’s cheek, the man smiles.

“Very well.”

And that, it seems, is that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have already started writing a sequel to this which addresses Zolf's use of compulsion on Oscar in the first chapter because everywhere I tried to put it in this one just killed the flow.


End file.
